Winchester Normal
by Kailene
Summary: E/O Challenge. WoW: Raw. One thought, and one thought alone had kept him going...had kept him sane, and he held no regrets for what he had done. Spoilers for S8, E1.


**Author's Note #1**: I'm on a roll this week, not only was I able to write and post the last drabble, but I also _finally_ manged to finish my White Collar story I was working on, which led to me being able to finish the drabble I had missed. Don't you just love it when the muse cooperates?

This isn't exactly a drabble though, but they _said_ the word that week could be written into a longer story...so mine was, coming in at just over 1000 words.

**Author's Note #2**: Hugs to Riathe Mai for all her incredible words of support and praise, and the over-night, last minute edit of not only one story, but two. Love you.

**Author's Note #3**: With the season premiere only a day away now, I'm on a Dean gets out of Purgatory kick, which is another reason I was pysched to get this story finished and posted before that, my own little take on events. Spoilers for S8.

**ooOOoo**

He was exhausted, filthy, and bloody; every inch of his body battered, bruised, and aching.

The gravel crunched under his feet as he spun in a slow circle, trying to get his bearings. The action increased the pounding in his head tenfold, making his insides twist and his vision blur.

Black spots danced in the corners of his eyes and the ground rushed up to meet him as the world swirled and tilted around him. His knees hit the dirt hard and he just managed to shot an arm out, catching himself seconds before his face hit the hard-packed earth.

Dean rested his forehead against the cool dirt, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn of bile clawing its way up his throat. He swallowed thickly a few times, breathing heavily out of his nose as he willed the nausea to settle.

He lifted his head slowly and carefully, looking through heavy-lidded eyes at his surroundings as he struggled to his feet, swaying sharply before he was able to get his legs solid beneath himself.

The gravel road he had been kneeling on was small, well-worn, devoid of any vehicles or people. The sun was high overhead, causing him to squint further as he surveyed the towering, tightly-packed trees that lined both sides. Overall, looking like a thousand side roads in a million little towns he had traveled over the years; doing absolutely nothing to alleviate his confusion.

His thoughts were a jumbled, chaotic, tangled mess; his hazy mind coming up blank as to what had happened to put him in this situation.

He didn't know where he was or what day it was; hell, with his track record, he couldn't even be sure "_when_" he was.

The memories assaulted him without warning and without mercy, doubling him over and stealing his breath. His fingers clenched his denim clad knees, lungs pounding painfully against his ribs by breaths coming in short, heavy pants. The images, terrifying in their clarity, played at full speed against the backs of his tightly closed eyelids.

_Stabbing Dick Roman._

_The air shimmering, wavering…coalescing; taking on a life of its own. _

_A sudden, blinding, all consuming burst of pure energy._

_The stench of sulfur, blood, decay and death._

_Red glowing eyes and ominous shadows, an endless black abyss_.

_Running. Fighting. Running. _

_Endless fighting. _

_Being the hunted instead of the hunter._

The sudden realization slammed into him, his hard won breath whooshing out of him in a rush, and he fought his body against the collapse it so desperately wanted.

Purgatory.

Dean scrubbed his hands down his face, brushing the dirt, sweat, and who knew what else away as his memories slowly started to fall back into place.

Dick Roman was dead.

The God weapon had worked, killing the Master of the Leviathans and sending him back to the pit from which he came.

Except Heavenly weapons don't come with warning labels, and he had been caught in the resulting blast, trapping him in the infinite void between Heaven and Hell.

No, not only him…

Cas.

The former Sheriff of Heaven turned God, turned freakin' peace, love, bee-whispering, flower child had been tossed over the rainbow as well. The Angel had fought by his side, the knowledge and advice he'd held saving his life more than once.

Dean straightened up, taking a step to the side and leaning heavily against the closest tree as his body swayed. He looked around, searching the area for his friend.

It stood to reason that if he were back topside again then Cas was as well. Sure, Castiel's powers had only worked sporadically in limbo, the effects of the forces of Purgatory working against the Angel, causing him to just wink out, disappear and reappear without his control.

But he must have overcome that, Dean thought as he weaved his way slowly down the abandoned road, figured something out and Angel-expressed both their asses out of Oz.

How else would…Dean pulled up short as the final pieces slammed into place.

No.

Not Angel-Airlines, more like Monster Express.

Dean ran his hands roughly through his short hair and sighed in exasperation. He could think of a dozen cliché's that fit.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Tempt not a desperate man.

Inspiration or desperation.

Every rose has its thorns.

Okay, so that last one he got from a song. Granted it was from a big-haired 80's band…but it was a power ballad, so he'd let it slide.

A smile curved his lip. Sammy would give him big-time shit for that one. Tell him all about where it _really _originated from; know every piece of lore there was to know, every person who ever quoted it, and be able to translate it on demand into any number of long-dead languages.

Which is exactly why he had done what he did. No matter which way he spun it…and he had, numerous times in the few moments he'd had to decide…it was still the equivalent of a Deal.

But it didn't matter.

Not to him.

The risks involved didn't even come close to the promise he had made and had vowed to never break. He wasn't going to abandon his brother.

A raw ache had stabbed at his soul every second, of every moment, of every day in Purgatory that he had been separated from Sam; that he didn't know how he was…where he was…if he was safe.

The only thought that had carried him through—as much as Dean would have given _anything _to have his brother by his side—was that Sammy _hadn't _been there.

Dean closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. That had been then.

Now…

They had protocols set up for emergency situations, drilled into them from the time that they were old enough to understand: what to do if you got separated, were injured and alone, apprehended or imprisoned by authorities, captured by any number of supernatural fuglies; a hundred different procedures for every conceivable situation.

But there was no chapter, no paragraph, no subtext of the Winchester Hunting and Survival Manual that even came remotely close to covering the mess they had found themselves in this time.

No phone. No car. No Angel to mojo his ass to civilization. No clue where to start.

A three million square mile game of needle in the haystack.

"Awesome," Dean groused, pushing himself off the tree. "Guess we do this the hard way…again."


End file.
